


Easier than Riding a Bike

by pikachumaniac



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, bicycles are evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2015-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don’t know how to ride a bike?"</p><p>In which Q has never understood the saying "easier than riding a bike," and despite (or because of) Bond’s best attempts, he understands it even less now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to every single person who, like me, does not know how to ride a bicycle.
> 
> This was originally posted on my Tumblr, although I’ve made some edits and attempted to flesh out the writing. Hope you enjoy!

It starts with a throwaway statement that Q knows he will spend the rest of his life regretting (when he’s not busy blaming Bond, anyway).

“You’re completely overreacting,” Bond says smoothly, like the swarmy, arrogant arse that he is. “Trust me, I’ve done this sort of thing hundreds of times already, Q, and by this point, it’s easier than riding a bike.”

“First off, I have no idea why people use that phrase considering how riding a bike is _not_ easy,” Q snaps back. “Second, the thought of me _trusting_ you is completely absurd, and-”

“You don’t know how to ride a bike?”

“-completely unwarranted given your track record with my equipment, which is pitiful at best-”

“ _You don’t know how to ride a bike?_ ”

Q finally stops mid-rant to stare at the agent, who in turn is staring at him like he has grown an extra three heads (each of which is infinitely more intelligent than his entire department combined at the moment, since they’re all also busy staring at him like they no longer recognize him). “Did you hit your head recently, 007? You seem to be repeating yourself.”

“You don’t know how to ride a bike,” Bond repeats _again_ , still sounding dumbstruck.

“Is that seriously the only thing you picked up from our current conversation? No wonder you never return anything I give you if you only hear every other word.”

Rather than repeat himself for the third time and make Q feel like he is trapped in some sodding time vortex where everyone would repeat themselves until the end of time itself, Bond finally mixes it up by asking, “How is that even _possible_?”

“I never learned, alright?” he snaps, and he is not being defensive and he is most certainly _not_ turning red as everyone continues to stare at him like he just admitted to clubbing baby seals on his days off (not that he has any days off, but that is beside the point).

“No planes, no bikes…” Bond ticks off on his fingers before shaking his head. “Next thing I know, I’ll find out you don’t actually know how to ride the tube either and you just live in a secret flat under your lab.”

“He sleeps on his couch a lot,” R offers helpfully from the peanut gallery.

“No one is talking to you!” Q yells back, then yelps as Bond grabs hold of his arm. “What do you think you are doing?!”

“Teaching you how to ride a bike,” Bond replies, hauling him out of his chair.

“You most _certainly_ are not!”

“What happens if you ever find yourself in a situation where your only method of escape is by bicycle?” Bond asks in what the agent probably thinks is a reasonable tone.

“In that extremely unlikely scenario, I will die a horrid and gory death either way because _bicycles are evil_ and absolutely impossible to ride. Let go!” Q is practically shrieking by this point. He knows he should stop because there are people whipping out their mobiles and they’re probably going to be taking video and he will never be able to command any respect from his minions ever again, but what Bond is proposing is directly correlated to a horrid and gory and _very imminent_ demise, and survival instincts are difficult to fight off.

But Bond was never known for mercy nor for listening to his superiors, and to no one’s surprise (but to everyone’s undying amusement except Q’s), Q is bodily hauled out of his office and towards certain doom.

* * *

Q has absolutely no idea how Bond manages to procure a bicycle and have it delivered to MI6 by the time they reach the ground floor, especially when he has been busy keeping an iron grip on Q’s arm the entire time to ensure that his captive doesn’t fling himself out a window in a desperate bid for freedom. He strongly suspects that the answer to that mystery will involve sending everyone in the building a computer virus as a way of showing his deep displeasure at their complicity in Bond’s cruelty, but for now he has to worry about the instrument of torture getting closer by the second.

“It doesn’t look very safe,” Q protests for the thirtieth time, trying to wriggle his way out of Bond’s grip. He fails miserably.

“I don’t think you’re one to talk about safety considering how you give Health and Safety a heart attack every time they find out that you don’t follow proper protocols when working with dangerous chemicals,” Bond replies in a very judgmental way.

"Those procedures have no basis in reality," is his sulky response. "You should know that already, seeing how you can never be bothered to fill out your paperwork."

“There’s no point when no one ever believes my mission reports anyway,” Bond replies breezily, finally letting go of Q to shove him at the bike. “Get on.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll fall!” _Idiot_ , he somehow manages not to add even though he is being forced to state the obvious.

“You won’t fall,” Bond sighs. “I’ll hold onto the back of the bike until you can balance properly.”

“And then you’ll let go, and I’ll fall.” He knows how this game works; goodness knows that enough friends over the years had confidently explained their failsafe plans for teaching him how to ride, only for him to fall flat on his face. _Literally_.

“ _You won’t fall_.” Bond has once again fallen into the habit of repeating himself, as if he thinks that saying it enough times will make it true. Q knows that it will not because he has spent the past ten minutes repeating that he is not going to get on the bike and yet here he is, trying not to squeal in outrage as Bond grabs him by the waist and hoists him onto the bike, all the while muttering about how skinny he is.

As soon as he finds himself being lowered onto the bike, he grabs hold of the handles tightly, trying desperately to keep both feet firmly planted on solid ground. He can feel Bond’s presence behind him, and has to remind himself that said presence is in _no way_ reassuring because Bond is a trained killer and he is currently trying to slaughter Q in front of his entire department because they’re all standing there, still taking video. Assuming he survives this, he’ll be replacing the lot of them after he drowns them all in the ocean, he swears he will.

Bond ignores his muttered death threats to point at the death machine’s pedals. “Okay, so the first thing you need to learn is to push off. Move the pedals to a comfortable position… no, not too high because then it’ll be difficult for you to… here, let me.” Bond shifts the pedals before continuing, “You’re going to push off with your right and then pull your left foot up. It’s going to feel wobbly but that’s normal, and just remember I’m holding onto the back so you don’t actually need to work about balancing.”

“You’re going to let go.” Q doesn’t care how petulant he sounds, he really doesn’t.

“I won’t let go until you’re comfortable.” Bond is trying to be reassuring, but it’s hard to be reassured when the agent is smirking at him like he is a ridiculous child rather than an adult who is not suicidal enough to put his life in the hands of an uncaring _bastard_. “Let’s just try, alright?”

He tries one last time to get off the bike, only to get pulled back onto the thoroughly uncomfortable seat. Why people would _want_ to bike is completely beyond his understanding; he can already feel his arse going numb. “You won’t let me leave until I try, will you?”

“Nope.”

“Bastard,” he says out loud this time, but he resigns himself to his fate. There are too many people here with a vested interest in humiliating him (and more than a few of them are double-o agents; for the first time in his life, he wishes he hadn’t spent so much time irritating people with his superior intellect), so even if he tried to run, it’s likely one of them will catch him and then he’ll just end up getting handcuffed to the bicycle. “Fine, but _only this once_.”

“We only need to try once,” Bond declares, and it is not the first time someone has made this bold proclamation to Q.

Needless to say, it goes about as well as all of those previous times. He barely gets his left foot off the ground before he feels himself tipping over, and in his panic he immediately plants both feet back on the ground.

“You have to keep going forward,” Bond says, and for the first time there is a little worry in his voice. “And don’t look down, but focus on what is ahead.”

“You mean certain doom?” Q mutters as Bond again adjusts the pedals. He waits until he feels Bond behind him, and then tries to push off only to again feel like he is falling over again. His feet return to the ground so quickly one would think they were weighed down by cement bricks. “This is _impossible._ ”

“You have to stop worrying about falling,” Bond says at their sixth attempt, and Q is pleased to note a hint of irritation creeping into the agent’s voice.

“Well excuse me if I don’t actively try to injure myself on a daily basis.”

“I told you, it always feels off-balance when you start. You just have to keep going and eventually you’ll get enough momentum to stay upright.”

“You mean I’ll get enough momentum to end up with my brains splattered all over the pavement.”

“That can be arranged,” Bond mutters.

“This was your bloody idea,” he reminds the agent with no sadistic pleasure whatsoever. Really, there is no pleasure because in the end, he is the one who is still trapped on the bike.

By the twenty-sixth attempt, Bond is developing a twitch and Q has managed to make it about twenty-six feet, exclusively by hopping his bike along because he can’t even get one foot on the pedals, let alone two, before he feels himself falling and puts his feet down on the ground again. Their audience is starting to grow restless at the lack of progress or at least bloodshed, and Q is seriously considering biting a chunk off Bond’s neck to satisfy their blood thirst if that is what it will take to _make this stop_.

Luckily, Q is spared of having to worry about the paperwork involved with mauling a double-o agent (Form 294745D, use black or blue ink only and please keep the blood stains to a minimum) when M steps out of the building like his own personal savior and demands, “What on earth is going on here?”

Silence. After a moment, their esteemed leader sighs and says, “Never mind, I clearly don’t want to know. Q, if you can get back into the office and run your department like we pay you to do, there is a coup going on that we need you to start monitoring.”

“Oh thank god,” Q says, before carefully arranging his expression into something vaguely resembling contrition when M gives him a disbelieving look. “I mean, that’s horrible, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

“Don’t think this is over,” Bond hisses at him as he practically jumps off the bike, and Q makes a mental note to start carrying pepper spray with him. “You will learn how to ride a bike whether you want to or not.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, 007,” Q shoots back, shoving the bike at the agent. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have actual work to do.”

He flees for the sanctity of his office, careful not to look back at where Bond is no doubt glowering at him and plotting. Evilly.


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh good lord, what is this.”

If Q needed proof that he really should have started carrying pepper spray (or bear spray; he thinks M will forgive him for causing 007 brain damage - who would be able to tell the difference anyway?), the sight of Bond standing outside his building with a _bicycle_ is proof enough that he hasn’t been nearly vigilant enough for his personal safety.

(And if he’s staring, well, it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that the agent is considerably dressed down compared to his usual designer-wear. Right now, Bond looks almost… normal, perhaps even _scruffy_ , in his jeans and what could possibly be a t-shirt.)

Because Q does in fact have some semblance of survival instinct, even if it is delayed, he immediately turns and tries to run back into his building. Unfortunately, Bond is a double-o agent and apparently quite determined, so he finds himself being grabbed and hauled toward the death machine by the collar of his shirt.

“Unhand me, 007!” he ~~orders~~ screeches, not caring that he’s blowing Bond’s secret identity to everyone within a six-block radius (not that it matters; it’s not like Bond doesn’t already introduce himself by name to every bloody terrorist he meets). He kicks out, landing a blow on Bond’s shin, but judging from how easily the bastard shrugs it off, it probably hurts less than being clawed by an angry kitten.

He is eventually unhanded, but since it involves being deposited in front of the damn bicycle, he might have preferred the continued strangulation by clothing.

“Get on,” Bond demands.

“No,” he replies, crossing his arms in a defiant and completely non-petulant way. He’s already been humiliated in front of all of his colleagues, and now Bond proposes to humiliate him in front of his entire neighborhood. He swears even Mrs. Hudson’s boarders are peeping through the window drapes, and the thought of being the subject of the neighborhood sympathy is terrifying. Mrs. Turner might even try to bring him a pie, which everyone knew is nothing short of deadly considering how much sugar she put into it.

“I’m not leaving until you get on,” Bond threatens, and Q can’t help but think that is a superbly ineffective threat. Bond looks good in his casual clothing, and Q wouldn’t mind something nice to look at when he’s having problems coding.

… except that is an incredibly inappropriate train of thought to be having (not to mention a dangerous one), so in the interest of self-preservation, he forces himself to return to the topic on hand. “No. I’m going to fall and break my fingers, and then M will fire me and I will have to become an international terrorist and then you’ll be sent to kill me.”

“That’s why I bought these for you.” Bond pulls out (from where? From _where_?!) a set of horrifically bright pink knee and elbow pads, and a matching bike helmet that merrily _sparkles_ up at him. “I’ve told you before, quartermaster, I’m always prepared.”

“Why can’t you be this efficient when returning my equipment?” Q moans, trying to back away from the pink monstrosities that make him want to speed up the timetable on his becoming an international terrorist. Besides, none of the… kindly proffered equipment will protect his hands, a fact that is apparently lost on Bond who proceeds to practically _straddle_ him so that the safety pads can be strapped on, tight as the straps of a straitjacket. Q valiantly attempts to bite off a pinky when Bond puts on the bike helmet, but misses by a few desperate inches.

Then to his dismay, he is being pulled up (the curtains are open a little wider now and Mrs. Hudson herself is waving cheerfully at him; nobody is bothering with subtlety now) and pushed towards the bicycle, which, thankfully, is not also pink. He considers taking the bike and _throwing_ it at the bastard, but he’ll probably just break his back in the process. While that would at least get him out of Bond’s torture attempts, the tradeoff might not be worth it and so he finally sighs and gets on. He rather sulkily kicks the pedals into place before trying to push off, the key word being _try_ because he doesn’t get two inches before he can feel himself tipping over again, causing him to put his feet down.

This process repeats twenty more times, at which point Bond says (for the twentieth time), “I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us,” Q grumbles, trying to ignore how Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner have set out _chairs_ on the sidewalk to better watch the action, and he vows to put them on every existing terrorist watch list before the day is out.

Bond ignores him and the smoldering hatred he is directing at every person in the six-block radius. “Your body is twisted in _both_ directions. It’s like you’re deliberately trying to fall in two ways.”

“I’m trying not to fall at all, which is why you should let me off this thing!” Q yells back at him. Again, he is ignored except when Bond casually hauls him back onto the bike when he tries to escape. He grumbles but resigns himself to his fate, which seems to consist of trying (and failing about half the time) to get both feet on the pedals before he starts to feel like he’s falling over. It doesn’t matter that he knows that Bond is holding onto the back (he’d told the agent to let him try on his own, but that had gone no better than before, so they were back to Bond half-pushing him as he struggles to maintain his balance); the constant panic that he will fall keeps raging back, and as a result, progress is minimal indeed.

Well, unless one counts the progress of destroying Bond’s last remaining shreds of patience.

“How do you even manage to walk without falling?”

“By not being on a bike, for starters.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Bond asks calmly, or as calmly as he can after a grand total of thirty-six failures. “It’s like you don’t actually want to learn.”

Q flat out stops, twisting to glare at the agent. Maybe it’s the twenty-eight person audience to his humiliation, maybe it’s the fact that this _isn’t the first time_ , maybe it’s his own frustration at not managing something that even _children_ can do. But he’s tired and this isn’t how he envisioned spending his day or his bloody _life_ , and so he thinks he can be forgiven when he grabs the agent by the front of his shirt (which makes him hate Bond _even more_ because it shows off the lines of his body so damn well) and pulls him close to snarl, “You really think that is what I’m trying to do? You think I _enjoy_ making a prat out of myself? You think I _enjoy_ the stares I get when I tell people I don’t know how to ride? Because this might come as a surprise to you, 007, but I don’t enjoy it, I really don’t. That’s why I’ve tried to learn more times than I care to recount, and it’s why I’m here now when I should have just tazed you and left your twitching body on the ground.”

He’s breathing hard by the end of that little speech, and his irritation is not helped by the odd look on Bond’s face. It’s a cross between surprise and a little smugness, and Q is fully prepared to accept that exasperation has permanently and irreparably scarred the agent’s psyche, especially when Bond says, “Oh. And here I was thinking that you had agreed because you wanted to spend time with me.”

And before Q could do anything but gape at the clearly psychotic man, Bond leans in to kiss him.

The kiss barely seems to last, and yet it feels like forever, and then _not nearly long enough_ because before he could absorb what was happening, before he can settle into the kiss, before he can dig his fingers into the agent’s back and show him how it’s _really_ done, Bond is pulling away, and why on earth is he pulling away? Bond is not smirking, even though Q’s look of utter bewilderment is probably material enough for a year’s worth of teasing. Instead, he brushes a hand along Q’s cheek and says quietly, “But I am glad you didn’t try to taze me, at least.”

Without waiting for an answer beyond pathetic stammering, the agent walks away, taking the bike with him and leaving Q with bright pink protective gear, a raging blush to match, and the titters of his neighbors raining down on him.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh good lord, what is that?”

For the second time in a week, Q finds himself gaping at a contraption that he has no words for (a difficult accomplishment considering how he spends his free time pulling apart Boothroyd’s old inventions, including - to his horror - a _crocodile-shaped motorboat_ ). He also has no words for the man proudly leaning against it, although he should considering how Bond had been studiously avoiding him for the past week. Granted, there were no work-related reasons for them to interact, but that had never stopped the agent from harassing him before. The fact that the bastard’s sudden respect for boundaries had immediately followed that random and inexplicable and absolutely toe-curling kiss had made him fret about his likely sub-par kissing skills, but it looked like his worrying was for naught if Bond is here.

With a new instrument of torture, yes, but still.

“It’s a tandem bicycle,” Bond explains. Badly.

“It’s ridiculous,” he replies, wondering who on this earth had decided to take a bicycle and make it even more terrifying. He also makes a mental note to see if said person is alive and available for a cold cell in Belmarsh Prison or a consulting position with MI6.

“I’ve made plans for us this afternoon,” Bond announces grandly, ignoring both his horror and the way he is edging back towards the front door.

“What if I already had plans?” he asks, fully aware that this is a stupid question but not caring because he needs to distract Bond as he figures out a way to melt the metal monstrosity before it’s too late.

Bond looks so smug that Q suddenly wishes he knew how to ride a bicycle if only to _run the bastard over with it._ “I assumed the risk of that wasn’t too high, considering how you are notorious for having no life outside of work.”

Q flushes, and is more than ready to tell Bond exactly where he can put that bicycle because _he_ is certainly not going to be going anywhere near it, when Bond sweeps towards him. The agent moves so effortlessly, and before he can flee or whip out that bear spray, there’s a hand on his back and he’s being pulled close. Bond is no longer smirking when lips press against his, and Q is starting to wonder if the man is a real-life Jack Harkness complete with 51st century pheromones because he isn’t normally _this_ susceptible, he really isn’t. The only time his sense returns is when Bond’s hand starts to travel downwards towards his arse, forcing him to bat the roving hand away. The bastard chuckles into the kiss at that, and Q retaliates by grabbing _Bond’s_ arse, forcing them even closer.

When they finally pull apart, he can hear the stage whispers of all his neighbors. He probably should care more about that, but the flush on his cheeks has nothing to do with embarrassment as he eyes Bond, wondering if the man could be convinced to abandon his mad plans in favor of being invited inside. But before he can ask, the agent steps away (but not _too_ far) and looks meaningfully at the bike, unnecessarily adding, “Ready to go, Q?”

In return, Q flattens himself against the door. “Wouldn’t you rather I let you in?” he asks plaintively, trying not to stare past Bond at the _thing_ that is still sitting on the pavement, looking quite ready to spring on him and _break his neck_.

“Not sure how you will do that, considering how I have your keys.”

Q just manages to suppress his squeak of outrage (although the shrieking in his head is quite loud as any warm and fuzzy feelings he has towards the man die a fiery death) when Bond dangles his keys and wallet in front of him. Rather than try to tackle the man, he closes his eyes and tries to calm himself, saying as calmly as he can, “Bond, I do hope that you do not rely on groping people in order to pickpocket them. That would make you a very poor excuse of an agent, indeed.”

Bond just laughs, and there is something so open about the sound that it stills Q’s anger (for now). “Get on. I promise I won’t let you fall.”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” he grumbles, but allows himself to be pushed towards the demon invention. It might be because everyone on his street is watching again, making it clear that the only way to escape is by bicycle. Or it might be because there’s something in Bond’s voice that makes him believe this time could be different, although Q should know better. After all, how many times has he heard the agent use that voice on targets, only for them to end up being shoved off tall buildings?

“You take the back,” Bond says. “Just sit as you normally would, and don’t worry about pushing off. I’ll take care of that, so you just start pedaling once we have momentum and we’ll be on our way.”

“On our way where?” Q asks, although he’s far more concerned about the journey rather than the destination (because he’s not entirely sure he’ll survive long enough to reach it). He reluctantly gets on the bike though, making sure to keep both feet firmly planted on the ground although the weight of the thing is great enough that it’s a struggle not to tip over.

He’s therefore relieved when Bond gets on as well, although the relief is short-lived as Bond asks, “Ready?”

“No,” he mutters, putting his feet on the pedals and waiting for the horrific accident that will cause him to lose both hands and at least one foot. With that glorious vision in mind, he’s completely caught unawares when Bond pushes off and they _don’t_ immediately fall into a conveniently placed ditch.

Because he’s not completely suicidal, he immediately starts to pedal as well, his hands tightly gripping the handlebars and back ramrod straight as he waits for the inevitable crash. But for once Bond is right, as they zip down the street without feeling wobbly once. It doesn’t prevent his heart from catching in his throat as they make their way (north, he’s fairly certain they’re heading north), especially when he finally sneaks a glance to the side without throwing their balance completely off.

"Having fun?” Bond calls out to him, and Q does not deign to respond. Or at least he doesn’t respond verbally, as he slowly allows some of his tension to slip away, his shoulders relaxing and desperate hold of the handlebars uncurling ever so slightly. Bond is keeping a steady pace and for a ridiculous second, he wishes they could go even faster, but sanity manages to prevail even if a part of him realizes that he might _actually_ be enjoying this. His survival instincts are still shrieking madly, but it’s muted by the exhilaration of Bond’s madness spreading. Yet there is something exhilarating about the ride, about the ease with which they move through the streets together, even if he doesn’t understand it.

They don’t stay on the streets for long, quickly entering one of the pathways of Regent’s Park, near the boating lake. Despite living so close he’s never been here, never had _time_ to venture over. It’s really quite pleasant, as they continue to head northwards, Bond clearly knowing exactly where they are going.

And when they finally arrive Q isn’t sure what surprises him more: his reluctance to stop or- “Did you actually arrange a _picnic_?”

This time, it’s Bond who can’t be bothered to answer as they come to a stop. There’s a checkered blanket and a basket and Q wonders how on _earth_ it did not all get stolen before they arrived, but decides that he probably doesn’t want to know because by now he’s learned that agents – particularly 007 – move in mysterious ways that the common folk are simply better off not understanding.

Instead, as he gets off the bicycle (with considerably less grace than the agent), he asks before he can help himself, “Do you do this a lot?”

He doesn’t even need to hear the question said out loud to know that it is not a kind question to ask. Because he is a coward, he doesn’t look at Bond, instead staring at the scene. It’s wonderful, offering a clear view of all of central London, the city and the people that both he and Bond have sworn to protect by any means possible. He could have just let them sit on that ridiculous cloth and watched it all day while talking about nothing. But talking about nothing has never been his style, and he has to know where they stand before this goes too far. He’s already fallen harder than he reasonably should and it’ll only get worse (or better, depending on one’s perspective) from here on out. So maybe it is not the kind question to ask, but it is the right one.

“Yes and no,” Bond says with admirable calm, and Q turns to stare at him. The agent is already seated, having finished pulling out sandwiches and a bottle of wine from the basket, and his expression is impossible to read. “Yes to this-” he gestures at the view, “-but no to that.” He points at the tandem or as Q likes to call it, the instrument of Satan himself.

“Why not?” Considering the amount of euphoria he’d felt when riding the thing, he posits that it should be deemed an aphrodisiac fit for military use.

“Because there aren’t too many people out there that I would trust my back to.”

Q can feel himself reddening at that, taken aback by the absolute seriousness of the words. It’s strange that he would never have considered himself… trusted by Bond, but to be honest, he’d never considered that the agent was capable of trust. After what happened with Vesper, after being shot and nearly killed on Mansfield’s orders, after everything that Bond has seen and been through, he would not have blamed the man. But to think that somehow, without even trying, he’d managed to be viewed as someone who could be _trusted_ … well. It’s all rather unexpected, is all he can say.

Of course, because he’s an utter arse, he doesn’t respond appropriately but instead attempts to compensate for his blush by replying, “Well, there aren’t too many people I would trust to convince me to get on that _thing_.” He tries not to glare at the bicycle when he says that, possibly afraid that it will tackle him if he gives it too much attention. He also tries not to stare at Bond because he’ll probably say something stupid, like, “Also, I was less watching your back and more watching your arse on our ride over here.”

He barely has time to process the soft chuckle when fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him gently over. He flops down gracelessly next to the agent, and is helpless to resist when the man’s mouth closes over his. But that’s not quite right because what does he have _to_ resist, especially now? It’s not like Bond is trying to get him on a bicycle anymore, and this… _this_ is something that he doesn’t want to fight. Yes, there are reasons to be wary, to be _scared_ (because having Bond’s trust is as simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating as riding that tandem bicycle), but he knows without a shadow of a doubt that this is also something he _wants_.

It might not be as easy as riding a bike, but as he clings to the agent and deepens the kiss, he knows it is far more worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only bicycle I’ve successfully ridden is indeed a tandem bicycle (over a decade ago, so my apologies for inaccuracies there!). Bond is far nicer than my mom was though, as she took a lot of pleasure from _taking her hands off the handlebars_ and making me screech like a banshee.

**Author's Note:**

> For my shorter ficlets, deleted scenes, and babbling about writing (or lack thereof), I can be found at http://pikachumaniac.tumblr.com/.


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